


A Wish for Wings that Work

by actuallyfeanor



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood, Fingon is a certified idiot, Fingon tries to fly, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Foreshadowing, Gen, Not Shippy, Originally Posted on Tumblr, References to Melkor's ill-fated flying endeavours, Short One Shot, Tumblr Prompt, disaster noldor, how Fingon got his name, jumping from a rooftop is generally a bad idea, stupidity runs in the family, the eagles are coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 13:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Fingon wants to fly, and Maedhros tells him the story of Melkor's ill-fated endeavours in the field of aerodynamics.





	A Wish for Wings that Work

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr as a response to a fic prompt.

He had seen the birds do it, had studied their feathers, the angle of their wings, how they launched themselves from clifftops, from branches, from rooftops. For hours he had watched them soar high in the sky, sometimes only dark silhouettes against the golden light of Laurelin, sometimes showing a flash of white as they beat their wings to reach a higher altitude.  
Fingon knew how to fly.  
In theory.  
He also knew that his leg was most likely broken. Through the tears that clouded his vision, he could see that it was twisted at an unnatural language, and the pain was excruciating. He drifted in and out of semi-consciousness for a while, was dimly aware of someone - his father, he thought - carrying him, and then someone gave him something sweet to drink, and the world went dark.

Time passed, and he was soaring far above a strange country. Tall, snow-clad mountains rose from a sea of mist; the clouds were a rosy colour, lit by the soft glow of a light floating in the sky. The rush of the wind and the beating of great wings filled his ears, and he was dimly aware of someone vaguely familiar next to him. He looked down and discovered that his hands were sticky with blood, yet both his legs were unharmed. Strange. It must have been a dream. But the blood on his hands was real enough, and so were the tortured sounds coming from the person next to him. Maedhros, Fingon realised with a start, but he looked much older, much thinner, like a ghost of the strong, tall person Fingon knew. So much blood. _What have I done?_

He woke to find Maedhros sitting in a chair next to the bed, looking healthy as usual. There was a dull ache in Fingon’s leg, and a bandage wrapped tightly around it, which reminded him that the jump from the rooftop had been real after all.  
“Our brave hero awakes from his slumber,” Maedhros remarked sardonically. “Fingon the Valiant, leaping bravely from rooftops to challenge gravity itself to a duel. Though it seems gravity won this time.”  
“Stop it. I was trying to fly.”  
Maedhros snorted.  
“Were you now? It seems to me that we Eldar are not made for flight. Perhaps some of the Valar could, if they wished, but I have never heard of such a thing.” He paused for a moment. “Though, I once heard a curious tale from Olórin, one of the Maiar who dwell with Nienna. He told that long before the coming of the Eldar, Melkor wished to learn the secret of flight. He sought far and wide for someone who might teach it to him, but to no avail. Now Manwë, wanting to see what his brother was up to, sent his great eagles to spy on Utumno. But Melkor managed to capture one of the eagles, and when it refused to tell him how to fly, he cut off its wings and tied them to his own back, hoping that this would let him take flight. So he leaped from a high cliff, but the wings would not hold him, and so he landed face-first in a lake and was left to walk home, wet wings dragging behind him.”  
Fingon laughed with delight, but then he thought of something.  
“What happened to the poor eagle without wings?”  
“His brothers carried him back to Manwë, and Varda wove new wings for him out of starlight, so he once again could soar high above Mount Tanquietil.”  
“Good. I felt so sorry for him because what if he couldn’t fly anymore? Wouldn’t that be terrible?”  
“It would most certainly be terrible for an eagle. As for you, I think you have done enough flying for a lifetime.” And Maedhros rose from his chair and made for the door.  
“Wait! I had a dream about you. Well, about the two of us, anyway. We were flying, and - and it was quite horrible. There was blood and you were sick and I didn’t know what to do, and -”  
Maedhros sat down on the bed and stroked Fingon’s hair.  
“Don’t worry, my valiant little cousin. It was only a nightmare. Try to sleep now, so your leg gets time to heal. And if you want to dream of flying, dream of eagles with wings of starlight, watching over you to make sure you don’t do anything this stupid ever again.” With a grin, Maedhros put out the light and left.

Years later: The skeletal figure that hung from the cliffside was only recognisable as his cousin by virtue of the shaggy mop of dirty copper hair on its head. But Maedhros’ eyes still sparkled when he looked at his rescuer astride the giant eagle.  
“Looks like Fingon the Valiant finally figured out how to fly.”


End file.
